


Weak Defence

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hypnosis, Identity Porn, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: The Master finds working his way towards becoming Prime Minister lonely, thankless, and worst of all,dull. Sometimes, he can't help himself.





	Weak Defence

**Author's Note:**

> This was written 11 years ago for the Best Enemies Anon Meme prompt, "Ten/Harold Saxon during those 18 months that Saxon was PM...." http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=131698#t131698
> 
> I've edited it lightly, but largely kept it as-was.

The Doctor stormed into the Ministry of Defense, using his old (and surprisingly still valid) UNIT clearance codes to get past security. He wanted to give whoever was in charge a piece of his considerable Time Lord mind on the subject of Torchwood’s most recent debacle (it had to have been Torchwood, scavenging something nasty—no human weaponry could have done this). He was beginning to regret his decision to topple Harriet Jones. He’d understood the logic behind her choices, even found it a bit sympathetic. The trouble was, it was the sort of sane- _sounding_ rhetoric that was actually dangerous nonsense. He’d heard the same lines before, from a thousand leaders with more concern for security than reverence for life. Still, at least Harriet had kept some kind of tabs on Torchwood, and her slightly untrustworthy attention had been infinitely superior to complete _in_ attention.

The point was, he and Martha had been dealing with the An Shuni lizards—there’d been no need to torch _an entire city block,_ just to eliminate the threat. People had been killed. The press spin being (impossible to miss, being broadcast on every television network, played on everything from shop-window displays to the Picadilly Circus jumbotron) was ridiculous. Surely no one would believe a ‘random atmospheric electrical discharge’ had done _that_ to Purley High Street? And scientifically speaking, the Doctor had no idea what this Archangel Network was going to do to ‘dissipate energy’ and ‘prevent the recurrence of such a tragedy’.

Where the Doctor had expected to meet interference (because his security clearance wasn’t all _that_ high), he was waived through. Despite the anger pumping through him and focusing his mind, the Doctor was bemused by how easy it had been—and even more taken aback when he was shown into the Ministerial Office without even being asked to wait. 

The room contained just one man, standing by the window. He turned to greet his visitor with a disconcerting grin. 

“ _Doctor_ ,” he said, with absolute certainty, and no little relish. 

“That's exactly who I am. And _you've_ just made me—” the Doctor’s tirade ended abruptly, because the man (the Secretary of State for Defence?) had shoved the Doctor against the wall and pushed his tongue down his throat.

The Doctor let it go on for a second too long. He’d never seen this man before, didn’t even know his name. But there was something so _familiar_ about that touch. It had been years since the Doctor had been so immediately, emphatically interested. Then he remembered exactly why he was here, and pushed the stranger off him.

“Wait—” 

“ _Shut up_.” The other man grabbed the Doctor by the hair and roughly shoved his head to the side so that he could suck at the Doctor’s neck. The Doctor gasped and pounded a fist into the conference room’s wood paneling, before he could even wonder why a human knew to go for the exquisitely sensitive skin that lay directly over the vein connected to his respiratory bypass system.

“I’ve got more of those electric nets.” The other man’s words were poison, and seeped into the Doctor through frantic kisses, despite the distraction of the too-eager hands ripping at the buttons of his coat. “Dozens of them, all over the city, and I’ll kill everyone, Doctor—” teeth on his jugular, nipping lightly, the stranger snarling with need as he ineffectually tried to tug the Doctor’s coat off his back, hampered by the wall, “I’m not joking, absolutely _everyone_ , if _you_ don’t cooperate." He fared better with the Doctor’s shoes and trousers. "Wrap your legs around me. There’s a good boy.”

“ _What?_ Why should I believe you?” the Doctor gasped, even as he flung his legs up automatically at the command, terrifyingly unable to stop himself. It was so difficult to think—beyond even what the man was doing to him, for reasons he didn’t understand, it was so difficult to bloody _think._ Some barely perceptible sound in the room, like an alarm going off in the next house in the row, gnawed at his brain like a starved rat. 

The Minister chuckled. “But you do.” There was something more than sanity in the sound: a note of hysterical wonder, and something almost doting. “Even like this, with no warning, you know what I’m capable of.” 

The Doctor almost had it pinned down: the reason for the man’s familiarity, why submitting to this seemed almost natural, and why he believed without question that this man was willing to kill hordes of people, just to get what he wanted out of the Doctor. 

“That’s right.” The Minister watched the Doctor’s eyes as he shoved a slick finger into him. And when, the Doctor wondered, had he managed that? Why was everything a dizzy blur? That awful sound hummed through the Doctor’s bones, the vibration close to the edge of pain. 

“Connect the dots, Doctor,” the man said, and it would have been patronising but for how furious he seemed, how huge and intent his eyes were. Another finger scissoring in, too brief to be a preparation, obviously more of an effort to make certain he’d be comfortable in the Doctor than one meant to ensure that the Doctor would be comfortable taking him.

“Who the _hell_ —” the Doctor tried, but the other man didn’t seem to like that much.

“Who’s touching you?” the stranger countered as he slid in. 

The Doctor forgot his urge to snap back that he’d asked first, and his eyes jumped wide. His head jerked back against the wood panelling, thwacking against dark, hard Jacobean oak. He made a frantic noise and squirmed where he was pinned. He tightened his legs around the Minister, digging his heels in viciously, which only delighted the other man. 

“I don’t—” The Doctor’s voice shook. It felt good. It had been centuries. He'd been _so alone._ He wanted to be sick.

“Oh but you _do_ , though” the other man insisted. “Figure it out. Who’s taking you?” 

His thrusts were jerky with long pent-up energy. Even through the haze of his confusion, the Doctor could tell that whoever this was had really been looking forward to this encounter. Had blown up a street, just to get his attention. Out of all his many enemies, who hated him that much? Or who—

“Come on,” the other man almost pleaded, before tilting his head to lick the Doctor’s face, his neck, all the skin he could get in long strokes like a cat, animalistic and hungry. “You’re slower than usual today. Isn’t it obvious, Doctor? Tell me who’s inside you.”

“Some human—” the Doctor tried, and got pounded into the wall by a series of aggressive thrusts for being so dim.

“Wrong.” The other man’s tone was maliciously amused, but the amusement seemed almost like a front for the seething anger his movements conveyed. Anger that seemed to have brewed for longer than humans ever lived. “Let me rephrase the question. Whose are you?” The Minister tongued the Doctor’s ear and whispered, “Who do you belong to?”

“No,” the Doctor breathed, shoving his hands to the other man’s chest, at once to push him away and to feel both pulses, to confirm what he already knew. “Oh god,” and, with absolute certainty, “Master!”

“There you are,” the Master agreed. “Though you really should have known me by touch alone, shouldn’t you? ‘Some human’—what have you been getting up to? I suppose I can forgive you—for that little blunder, at least. It _has_ been too long, hasn’t it? I left you, alone in all the worlds. It must have been so quiet. So boring for you. But I’m back for you now.

The Doctor stared at him in shock. “Master—” he tried, but the other man continued, as though he hadn’t heard him. 

“I abandoned you.” The Master repeated in a hitched whisper, and the Doctor could tell he meant what he was saying. “I ran away, to the end of everything, and I was so terrified I didn’t think to take you with me. You know I’ve never been as sorry about anything as I am about that. But I’m back for you now.” 

The Master mover harder and faster, as if swept up in his own story, absorbed by the sweet plan he was sharing with its recipient. The Doctor could barely process that the Master was alive. He'd lost his head for their encounters, and it was all he could do to hang on.

“And in five months, you’ll never have to be alone again. You’ll like that. You never could tolerate solitude, or boredom.” The Master was thrusting and stroking in a syncopated rhythm. "You'll never have to make any difficult choices, never have to wonder if you’re doing the right thing—for the first couple years at least, I don’t think I’ll let you make any decisions at all." The Master smiled, jarringly tender. "You’ll live in my lap until you’re all better. All mine. And when I let you up, you’ll never be confused again, because you’ll finally understand that the right choice is whatever I want it to be. You’ll come running home every night to tell me all about the world you burned for me, in my name. And you’ll love me, because I’m the only one left to love. And you’ll be better than me, just like always. _You’ll_ never leave.” 

Shuddering, with a very soft sound, the Master came. His arms went lax, his spent body unwound, and he pinned the Doctor to the wall with his weight. He gave the Doctor an infinitely gentle, chaste kiss. 

“Now, come for your Master.”

Horrified and hard, the Doctor choked out a denial even as he did as he was told. He slumped over into the Master’s hold, shaking hard. 

“Shhh,” the Master muttered. “ _Doctor_. I’ve got you.” He huffed a soft laugh. “I know I should’ve waited, but I had to see you. Couldn’t resist.” 

He drew a long needle from the back pocket of the coat he was still wearing and flicked off the cap, jabbing it into the Doctor’s exposed neck. The Doctor cried out, trying to scratch at him, but his body went limp in seconds. He was left to stare at the Master, aghast and helpless as blackness started to consume the edges of his field of vision. 

“Now forget all about this,” the Doctor heard, as though from very far away. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.” 

***

The Doctor came back to himself while walking away from Whitehall. He remembered a pleasant conversation with a man who seemed to have a blur for a face. He wondered why he couldn’t recall the details. 

He supposed he knew that there was something very wrong about only foggily recalling an entire afternoon. Yet whenever he began to feel concerned about it, his concentration just slid away onto something else. He didn’t even think the phrase ‘post-hypnotic block.’ He was, though, absolutely convinced that he and the Minister of Defense had made some real progress in the course of their discussion, and he told Martha as much. 

“Oh yeah, that Harold Saxon’s brilliant,” she enthused. The Doctor found he agreed. 

  



End file.
